


Red Lipstick On, High Heeled Stilettos

by Sunshine_Magnet



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Accidental Groping, F/M, Sexting, Teasing, Walk Of Shame, Wrong number, business and pleasure, long and hard, or was it wine induced?, pent up, sexing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshine_Magnet/pseuds/Sunshine_Magnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks she's just a little bit out of his limit... only she's not. The new head of the Business Development department at Hi or Hey Records is sex on legs, and she's smart, too.  Unfortunately Cal sends a text about her to the wrong person... and she replies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Lipstick On, High Heeled Stilettos

**Author's Note:**

> I kept listening to Jason DeRulo's "Want To Want Me," and well, this little gem was born. The idea that nothing would stand in his way to get to her? It's hot. Cal's hot. Hell, now I'm all hot and bothered, too.... Hope you end up in the same boat. *peace sign emoji*

**Dude. Cab with Red Lips. Now I'm cockblocked and pent up. Wanna go on a run?**

She stares at her phone, eyes wide with shock. She's barely settled into her hotel room, the day long with travel and appearances and _him_. Hell, she hasn't even taken off her shoes, her beloved Herve Leger strappy black stilettos with the cute little tassel on the heel. Probably not the most practical, but she loves them regardless.

Glancing at her phone again, she rereads the text from Calum. She knows he didn't mean to send this text to her; the use of the word "dude" kind of clued her in, there. But....

Who is Red Lips? He says he was cockblocked? _And_ he's pent up?

_I literally just saw him. I wear red lipstick. He wasn't either of those things five minutes ago._

_Wait. Was he?_

Atley checks her reflection, smoothing down her blonde hair. She plays the entire day back, starting with the flight from Los Angeles to New York, the autograph signing at the record store, the interview at MTV's headquarters, the dinner (the wine!) they all had together before finally getting to the hotel.

Then there was the cab she shared with Calum and Michael, bouncing from Midtown down to the Lower East Side… the one with the cab driver caring naught about the lives he was responsible for as they swayed and leaned into each other with every movement. 

The moment when the cab driver turned on practically two wheels, Michael cursing and laughing and leaning on Atley as he held onto the handle at the top of the car. Atley's hand landing on Calum's thigh as her body pressed against his, a chain reaction she blamed solely on the idiot driving the car (because it definitely wasn't the wine). At the time, she tried to apologize, tried to ignore the way Calum put his arm around her, tried to ignore the heat coming from his hand as it rested on her shoulder. She blamed it on the stress of the car ride; it absolutely couldn't have been from anything else (because it absolutely was not because of the wine).

_What a lie._

She'd been fighting the sexual tension between her and Cal since they _met_ a month ago; Atley was hired to fill the role of Business Development Manager for Hi or Hey Records, the label started by Calum's band, 5 Seconds of Summer. The band, naturally, had upper level officers running the label; it was those same officers who threw a party when they made the formal announcement about the label, and it was at that party that Atley met the band.

They'd all been so nice, the boys, and that's how Atley (and the whole label) had come to think of them: as boys. Atley saw them all as young men: all so tall, all mature, in some ways, beyond their years. Luke was so terribly awkward, blushing and shaking her hand at the party. Michael was soft-spoken and mostly stared at her tits. Ashton seemed to have the most questions about her previous experience but didn't seem too concerned to learn this was her first time supervising the BizDev department, much to Atley's delight.

Calum was different. He wanted to know what sort of music was on her iPhone (she actually pulled it from her clutch to show him her Top 25 Most Played); he asked where she was from (Seattle); how old she was ("27? Seriously? Damn."); and finally, her status (it's complicated, but single - definitely single). To be honest, Calum had monopolized much of Atley's time that night, and maybe that's where this thing was born.

This _crush_.

Atley couldn't deny it; all of the guys are attractive in their own way (even if they were a little young). The thing with Calum, though... Well, she couldn't put a finger on it.

(Okay, yes she could and she did, she literally _did_ have a finger on him earlier in the cab, and she _may_ have let her hand linger a little longer than necessary on his thigh, and she may have dragged her middle finger up his hard length, but Goddammit, he'd been flirting with her all damn day,and there was wine, and there's only so much she could take.)

She fidgets with her phone, Calum's text message illuminated in the little blue box, waiting for a reply. She nearly jumps off her bed when the phone buzzes again.

**Disregard that message. Obviously intended for Ashton... Unless you want to go for a run? If not, sorry. Have a good night.**

Now, Atley prefers to think of herself as fit. She travels with tennis shoes and workout gear, preferring yoga and kickboxing to running, though. She thinks about it for a split second.

**_I could go for a run...if you don't mind my company. Could be a good way to blow off some steam._ **

She springs into action, banking on the fact that Calum won't turn her down (he won't, she knows he won't); within a minute, her entire suitcase is emptied on her bed, and she's surveying her spandex selection.

New York City was balmy and humid earlier, her black pencil skirt clinging to her thighs and her silk blouse not doing anything but sticking to her. Looking at her reflection now, well, she's a bit flushed, and she knows it's a direct result of _him_.

She pulls on some short leggings and one of her favorite strappy tanks with support built-in; she only prays it will keep her in check during an actual run. She's just tied her shoes when her phone buzzes.

**i don't mind. You may want to bring some cab fare - I'm planning on going long.**

Atley's sweating before they've even started. She just bets he can go long, the double entendre not lost on her in the least. She tucks her room key, ID and credit card into her phone case, plugging her earbuds in and finds a playlist that can match the rapid pace of her heartbeat. She's in front of their hotel, some swanky boutique hotel called Sixty LES, stretching, praying to every deity known to man that she doesn't embarrass herself, when Calum steps out, hair covered by a beanie, earbuds in, cut-off t-shirt showcasing his biceps that Atley _may_ have studied a bit more than she should have. "You ready?"

She nods, her ponytail brushing that space between her shoulders. "Know where we're going?"

Cal shrugs. "I looked at a map."

"Let's go." She gives Cal the lead, content to let him set their pace, content to stay a step behind him so she can admire his ass. And his calves. His years of playing soccer (football, whatever) definitely agreed with him, and they agreed with her, too. Cal kept a brisk pace, Allen Street to Houston Street over to the FDR then south towards Brooklyn; Atley wasn't sure, but guessing by the burn in her muscles and the sweat on her brow, she estimates they are keeping about a 10-minute mile pace. Every so often, Cal turns around, checking on her, and every time, Atley tries to act normal, act like she runs regularly, act like she isn't about to pass out and die right here on the FDR.

When they make it to Battery Park, Cal slows down, waiting for Atley to catch up. He takes out his headphones, and she does the same, trying to catch her breath, wondering why Cal didn't seem to be doing the same. "Wanna keep going? I told you I felt like going long." She can't pinpoint it, but Calum seems annoyed. She studies him for the briefest of seconds, noting how his eyebrows seemed a bit furrowed, his eyes dark, his lips almost in a frown.

"Still a bit pent up, I take it?" The words are out before her filter can stop them; she tries to cover it with a flirty smile and a turn of her head to avoid his eyes. She messes with her phone, changing playlists, not noticing Calum reaching for her phone until it is too late and it is in his hands.

"Really?" He rolls his eyes at her song choice and shakes his head. "Why don't you go back to the hotel, Atley?"

She glances down, noticing that she'd inadvertently selected the first 5SOS EP as her next running soundtrack. So what? She happens to like 'Out Of My Limit.' 

"Don't be a dick, Calum." You know, maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe this whole crush on Calum Hood has been a terrible, no-good, very bad idea. She only thought she'd gotten to know him over the last few weeks; she didn't like this side of him.

She much prefers the Calum who would wander into her office, play with her pens in her pen cup, drop the names of bands he thought she should check out; the Calum who, no matter what day it was, always wore his black skinny jeans with some sort of t-shirt and sometimes either a long sleeved shirt covering it or a jacket. That Calum made her laugh and laughed with her; this Calum in front of her, sexy and sweating and pissy, well, frankly, was pissing her off. 

When he shrugged, plugging his earbuds back in and taking off, Atley wishes she had a rock to throw at him. "Fine," she huffs, now determined more than ever to keep up with him, no matter how far and how long he wanted to run. (Okay, if they make it to Harlem, she's calling it a day. She's not out here trying to run a marathon or even a half-marathon, thank you very much.). The path gets a bit congested around the World Trade Center grounds even at the late hour, and for a moment, Atley loses sight of Calum. She slows to a walk, figuring she should quit and find her way back to their hotel, wondering if maybe she could find a short-cut. She checks the map on her phone for reassurance, and why does this part of Manhattan not have the familiar grid pattern of streets? She takes a deep breath and turns around, back towards Battery Park.

The tap on her shoulder a few minutes later startles her, sending her blood cold through her veins. She whirls around, ripping her earbuds out, hands up in self-defense. "God damn it, Atley. What the fuck?" Cal's cheeks are pink, and he's breathing hard - finally. "Where the fuck are you going?"

Atley takes a deep breath before bending down, resting her hands on her knees. "I lost you so I turned around. Didn't really think you wanted me along anyway."

Cal shakes his head, pulling his beanie off and rubbing his hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "You didn't think," he repeats in a low voice, looking up and around. "Yeah, neither did I."

Atley stands to her full height, still only coming up to his shoulders. "What does that mean?" She takes a step closer to him, almost coming toe to toe with him, tilting her head in a challenge.

Calum blinks before he surges forward, wrapping a hand around her neck and bending down, sealing his mouth over hers, not giving either of them a chance to back out. He swallows her startled gasp, his other hand pressing into the small of her back, aligning her petite body with his massively _hard_ one. Her hands grip the sides of his shirt before wrapping around him. "Don't fucking ruin this," he says, pulling back with a look on his face Atley can say she's never seen before. No, this look is full of lust and want and heat and before she can process, he's kissing her again, right here in the middle of the FDR running path. His tongue flicks against hers, and she sighs, swaying a bit on shaking legs.

Confession time: this is so much better than Atley had imagined, and yes, she may have imagined kissing Cal a time or ten. Despite his gruff demeanor, he's gentle with her, holding her close, blocking her from the cacophony around them. His lips are softer than she'd imagined; his hand, while calloused, strokes her face softly as his tongue (my God, his tongue) duels with hers for dominance. She finally pulls away. "Cal." She clears her throat, the one syllable of his name stuck. 

His brown eyes bore into her causing every protest she has to die. "Atley." She recognizes the challenge, his lips quirking to the side in a smirk, and she shakes her head, stifling a giggle.

"I'm not a runner," she confesses, scared this is a fleeting moment, an error, and, as good as it was, she doesn't want to have to run anymore - literally or figuratively.

Cal laughs, hands holding her hips. "You were cute trying, though. I'll get us a cab." Cal takes her hand, pulling her from the running path and toward the street, holding one arm up (a very nice, chiseled arm, by the way) in the universal sign to hail a cab. Atley stays on the curb, trying to clear the haze from her head. 

But the haze is kind of nice. It means she doesn't have to think.

There's probably a million reasons why she shouldn't (and maybe she's getting ahead of herself, but hello, this isn't just two friends sharing a cab). She’s done this - done the heated, hurried, _frenzied_ thing - and she knows how it ends. She’s not _opposed_ to a one-night stand, but Cal presents certain complications.

Those thoughts vanish when the yellow taxi stops in front of them, Calum opening the door for her and patting her on the butt when she slides in. When he closes the door and gives the driver the hotel address, it’s not lost on her that Cal slips the guy a $20 and tells him to hurry. There’s space between them, inches separating them although it feels like miles. Atley leans to the right, turning her body to face him, lips quirked into a smile. “You in a rush? Somewhere to be?”

Cal turns his head to give her a look - the one that says ‘Are you serious?’ without him saying it at all; it’s one she knows intimately as she seems to be on the receiving end of it all the time. For example, when he asked how old she was, she got the look. When she told him that yes, she’d already heard of Hey Violet, she got the look. When she confessed that she had a teeny tiny feather tattoo on her ankle before lifting her leg out from her desk to show him, she got the look. 

This time, though, the look is just a little bit different. This time, the look is accompanied by movement, notably, Cal leaning across the black leather seat towards her, stopping when his shoulder is touching hers. “The only place I need to be is with you.” Atley rolls her eyes and, in case she didn’t get the message, Cal places a kiss to her sweaty shoulder. “In my hotel room.”

"Someone's awfully confident," she whispers. They’re so close, noses almost pressed together, and she’s dizzy, trying to focus, and her head is swimming, and she licks her lips before kissing him, initiating the contact. Within seconds, it’s just like it was when they were standing in the middle of the sidewalk - intoxicating, too much, not enough, wanting more. She traces his jawline with her fingertips, and Cal slides his hand between the leather seat and her back, scooting her closer, closing the distance. Their knees knock together, and Atley pulls away at the contact.

"In case you forgot," Cal says into her ear, his warm breath sending a shiver through her. "You were the one who started this by touching my cock earlier. So yeah, maybe I'm a little confident." Atley nods, busted, caught.

"Wine," she squeaks. "It was the wine." Calum is kissing her neck, _my God his tongue is amazing, please don't stop_ ; she tilts her head to the side, giving him better access when the cab comes to a complete stop.

"Sixty LES." Calum sits up at the interruption, handing a fistful of cash to the guy and leaning over Atley to open the door.

"It wasn't the wine, and I think you know it," he mutters as they walk into the hotel. Thankfully they haven't been found by the fans, at least none that either of them see right off the bat. Atley may be new at her job, but she's studied the band - their fans can be rabid. She can only imagine what they'd think seeing Calum roll out of a cab, sweaty, with a semi _and_ an older woman _who works for him_. She hesitates a moment, Calum stepping into the elevator and holding the door with an expectant face. "Come on. You can protest when we get to the room."

His ability to read her mind is startling, but she follows instructions and steps in the elevator, careful to stand pressed against the wall opposite Calum. The silence is stifling as the elevator climbs the eighteen stories to Calum's floor, it's downright deafening as she follows Cal to his room, their tennis shoes on the carpet as loud as hammers striking a board. She leans against the wall next to his room as he pulls the key card from his pocket; he holds the door open and gives Atley an expectant look. She pushes off of the wall with her shoulder and leads Cal into the room. For a teenager (my God, is he really only just 19?), his hotel room is actually almost pristine. His bag is sitting on the valet stand, the bed looks perfect, it _doesn’t_ smell. Not that she spends a lot of time in hotel rooms (especially those of teenage boys) (and dear God, that sounds terrible), but still - her room, by comparison, is an absolute disaster, and they’ve only been checked in less than 3 hours.

“So,” Cal says, clicking the lock when the door shuts. “Let’s hear it. All the reasons why you think we shouldn’t do this.” When Atley stands like a gaping fish, mouth moving and no words coming out, he walks closer to her. This version of Cal is cocky, and it catches Atley off-guard. "You're running out of time."

"For what?" Atley takes a step backwards, and the chase is on, Calum taking a large step forward for each small step she takes backward. He grabs her before she hits the bed.

"To back out." He dips down and kisses her softly. "Please don't back out." The attitude is gone as he smiles, taking his right hand from her back, up her arm to her shoulder, fingers toying with the strap of her tank. "Atley."

"Calum." There's hesitation in her voice, there's hesitation as the seconds tick by; there is _not any_ hesitation when she pulls his face to hers and kisses him. She pulls his beanie off, tossing it on the ground, threading her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck. Her other hand grabs at his shirt, the baggy fabric clinging to him thanks to the sweat from their run around lower Manhattan. Her fingers trace along his skin, and Cal seems content to wait her out; Atley's _certain_ he's experienced - he's young, good looking and in a boy band (no matter what they call themselves). This isn't her first rodeo either, and Atley finds a little boost of confidence when Calum moans into her mouth. Her fingers trace the band of his shorts, from his stomach to his back, then she's lifting his shirt up and over his head. She pulls away, wanting to explore, wanting to take her time, so she does.

Tentatively, she leans forward, placing a kiss to Cal's pec, using her fingers to brush over his nipples. His head rolls back, and she flicks her tongue against his throat, sucking lightly - not hard enough to leave a mark. Cal stands perfectly still, hands on her hips, fists clenched around the fabric of her tank. "Fuck, Atley," he groans as she continues her tortuous ascent across his chest with her tongue. She glances up at him and winks. She works her way lower, down his chest, across his defined abs, tucking her thumbs under his basketball shorts and giving them a little tug. Calum adjusts his stance, shifting his weight and Atley seizes the moment, pushing his shorts and his boxers down his legs, and he kicks his shoes off in a fluid motion.

_Rock hard_. All of Calum is rock hard, and Atley is positively salivating. Gone are the thoughts, the reasons why this is probably a bad idea, the idea that he's too young, the notion that this will make things awkward. What's here is _him_ , and in an instant, she's on her knees, raking her nails up and down his thighs before taking his cock in her hand. She teases the tip, first with her hand, then with her tongue, swirling around his thick, pink head. Atley inhales sharply as Cal wraps her ponytail around his hand, and she swallows his cock, his hand guiding her. Her head bobs back and forth, the sounds of her mouth filling the room, mixing with Calum's harsh breathing, these little pants he makes every time she takes him down. Her fingers tease his balls, cupping them gently; stroking and massaging and working him towards a release.

"Are you? Fuck," he groans, realizing her other hand is in her pants; the pressure and the throbbing too much for Atley to ignore. "Get up." He tugs on her ponytail, and she pulls off his cock with a frown.

"What? Why?"

Cal's eyes flash darkly. "I said get up, Atley." He hauls her to her feet, lifting her tank over her head before she's even balanced, cupping her breasts in his large hands and pushing them together. "Holy shit." He bends down, taking one nipple in his mouth as his fingers pinch her other nipple before he alternates his attention. Atley tries to wiggle out of her leggings without pulling away from him and ends up getting them tangled around her shoes. "Will you," he starts and the annoyed look is back, and Atley is positively trembling with need, with want, with lust. "Goddammit," he curses, helping her get her shoes and pants off before standing back up. Any other time, any other place or person and this would be comical. With Calum? It's frustrating because _oh my God I need it now_. 

Calum looks around the room quickly before sealing his mouth to hers. "Me too," he murmurs, and Atley realizes she must've been speaking out loud; Cal lifts her off the ground, hands under her ass, hauling her to his hips. She gasps when his cock brushes against her pussy, and if she wasn't so tightly wound, she'd probably laugh at Calum's groan from the contact. "Hang on tight." Atley wraps her legs around his hips and tightens her grip at his neck as he walks, taking a few steps toward the floor-to-ceiling window. "Think they can see us?" He tilts her so her back is pressed against the cold glass. "Do you care?"

Atley gasps. "Don't care," she shakes her head. "Please, Cal, God," she begs as he reaches between them. _Holy fuck, he's strong, he's holding me up with one arm._ He pushes forward, filling her with his length, hips stuttering as she adjusts to him. His tongue duels hers as he pumps his hips, Atley's back making contact with the glass, her skin, still slick with sweat, making a squelching noise with every movement. 

She leans back, bracing herself on the glass, one arm wrapped tightly around his neck as one hand drops, hand pressed against the window. Cal's hips pump at a frantic pace before he stops abruptly. Keeping his hold on her, he turns, taking the steps necessary to lay Atley down on the bed. 

Laid out in front of him, Atley is a bit self-conscious as Calum's eyes rove over her. She fights the urge to cover herself with her arm, with the duvet, with a pillow, with _anything_. "Cal?" Now her tone holds a question, a plea, and Cal quirks his lips to a soft smile. She shivers when he lifts her foot, placing a kiss on the teeny tiny feather tattoo (that looks like a miniature version of his which is pure coincidence, she swears); Cal continues his way up her leg, sucking a spot at the back of her knee, kissing her inner thigh, and Atley's back arches under him. She moans when he flicks her clit with his tongue; she keens when he sucks the nub between his lips; she full out stops breathing when he slides a finger inside her. _My God, his tongue._ Her thighs shake without her permission, and Cal smirks at her.

"Now who's pent up?" He flicks his tongue across her clit again, and Atley feels like she's coming unhinged. 

"Don't fucking tease," she hisses, holding his head in place, relaxing and letting his tongue (seriously, this thing is magic) work her over. Her hips press up, meeting his fingers and soon she's chanting his name as the coil snaps, heat and sparks and color radiating through her body. Her leg drops from his shoulder when he slides up her body, aligning himself quickly and pushing in.

"That's it," he groans, filling her, pushing her legs back and opening her up to him. "Fuck." His body tenses when he curses, Atley's fingers dancing across his skin, teasing, pinching, twisting. He pistons his hips, slamming into her. "Fuck, Atley, do that again." She smirks and pinches his nipple, tugging on it slightly before licking her fingers and doing it again. "God," he swears, slowing for a moment before he speeds back up. "I'm gonna come."

She doesn't even process, she can't, blood pumping through her veins at the speed of a freight train as Cal spills inside her; her own orgasm (a second one? How even?) surging through her causing her to shake under him. When Cal pulls out, he chuckles before almost collapsing on top of her, save for the portion of his body weight resting on his forearms at the sides of her head. "Holy shit," she whispers as he kisses her neck. "Cal?"

"I know." He lifts up, moving to lay on his arm at her side. "Your ass print is on my window."

Atley groans when she follows his gaze to see, indeed, her ass print on the glass. "You know, you'd think I'd be embarrassed, but," she sighs. "Okay. Maybe I am."

"You're ridiculous," he laughs, his hand running nonsensical patterns across her chest. "No one will know it's _your_ ass, I mean, unless you take a picture and post it or something. And trust me, you don't want to do that."

Atley's eyes widen. 

"Google it. I'm sure you'll find it." Cal lays back on his back, eyes closing. He holds Atley close, his muscles tense around her shoulders. She counts silently; somewhere around fifty-three Mississippi, Cal's soft snores reach her ears. She places a kiss at his temple, carefully extricating herself from his hold and piecing herself back together as quickly as possible. She slips out into the hall, thankful to not see anyone as she does the walk of shame back to her room.

To say she has a fitful night is an understatement. She googles "Calum Hood Selfie" before she's even taken off her shoes, and well....yeah, she can't sleep. She tosses and turns, trying to get comfortable, but she just can't rest.

Her mind races, replaying her entire relationship with Calum, starting with the first meeting to every other moment in between. She's not really sure how it ended up like this, and somewhere around 3 am, she stops caring. That's also when she finally gets some sleep.

Her alarm alerts her (what feels like thirty minutes later) to her 8 am breakfast with the team: the 5sos management team, their agent, as well as her boss. Atley climbs out of bed and stretches, rushing through her morning routine so as to not be late. A last glance in the mirror proves she's ready for business: bright yellow blouse, black and white wide-striped skirt with a little flare and her shoes-the amazing strappy Herve Leger heels from the day before. Her red lipstick, her signature, is applied and perfect, and she's as ready to go as she can be.

Calum Hood is the first person she sees when she steps into the elevator. He's not alone; no, Michael and Luke are in the elevator, too, along with Adam, the bloke that got the band largely where they are today. Atley's the picture of calm confidence as she smiles at each of them amidst greetings before turning around slowly to face the front of the lift. The intensity inside the elevator reaches a fever pitch by the time they reach the lobby, and Atley is almost shaking.

"Breakfast is this way," Mikey points with a goofy smile and a laugh. Everyone follows his lead although Atley drags behind, fiddling with her cell phone. She needs distance. Maybe there's a Starbucks nearby....anything that will save her from extra minutes with the guys (specifically Calum).

Because Cal? Looks fine as _hell_ this morning.

A quick glance at her watch confirms she doesn’t have time to run and hide this morning; it’s time to face the music. Before she can take a step, Calum reaches for her elbow, holding her in place. “You can’t run away twice,” he says in a quiet voice.

Atley stifles the urge to roll her eyes. “I told you last night, I’m not a runner.”

“Bullshit.” He stands next to her while she continues to look at her phone, the total picture of casual acquaintances, should anyone pay them any attention. “I didn’t like waking up alone, Atley.” She can feel him brush against her arm, acting as if he is looking over her shoulder at her phone. He’s not, she knows this. 

“Calum,” she whines quietly, because really? She _really_ doesn’t have time for this right now. “Can you not? Can we just _not_ right now?” Atley takes a step forward, immediately missing the heat of Calum standing next to her, immediately chastising herself for even noticing that at all. _Goddammit._ “I’m not going to be late.”

She breezes into the restaurant, immediately spotting the table of tall gentlemen (except for John Feldmann, which, she’s not even really sure why he’s here anyway, except to maybe provide another suggestion at this discussion). She snags a croissant from the linen-covered table and takes a seat between Adam and Michael, across from her boss, Greg Thompson, the EVP at Capitol Music Group (and the guy subsequently overseeing this whole Hi or Hey Records endeavor). She tucks her tote bag under her chair after pulling out her trusty Moleskine notebook and pen, ready to start their meeting.

And then Calum walks in, taking the seat directly to Greg’s right. _Perfect._

The questions circulate rapidly: _What charities are you interested in? What sort of thing is totally off the table? What is your favorite song right now? What one person would you give credit to for shaping who you are today?_ Some are asinine, some are deep, and Atley does her best to record the band’s answers as they strategize for their label. Today’s purpose, the meeting with Greg, is to outline the next steps (signing artists and securing recording space and money to fund the projects): he wants names and song samples and all the intel Atley and the rest can provide. 

When it’s her turn, she presents Greg and the others with a one-page handout, detailing her due diligence, creating a list of “Bands to Watch” for the others to review. A large part of her job is attending live shows, scoping talent (at least at this stage in the development of the label); the last 30 days in Los Angeles and elsewhere on the west coast have netted 25 shows which means that 9 bands made her list to watch. She follows up her spiel with the promise that YouTube links will be forwarded out within the day.

When she can finally breathe again, she looks up, seven sets of eyes all trained on her. “Did I say something wrong?” She tries to swallow the panic rising up her spine to her throat.

Greg shakes his head after looking at John for agreement. “Not at all, Atley. I’m just really impressed at the work you’ve done in a short amount of time. Keep it up,” he smiles gently. 

“You’ve got a great ear,” John agrees. “Me and Cal went to a few of these shows,” he says, pointing at the list. Atley looks at Calum once John says his name; he’s sitting back in his chair with a satisfied look on his face.

“I’m surprised you didn’t run into each other,” Michael suggests with a wiggle of his eyebrows that only Michael Clifford could get away with. “Maybe you can bring him with you to another show or something.” Atley’s grip tightens on her pen, and she wonders if she has enough force in her left hand to stab Michael in the thigh with it all while maintaining a professional demeanor.

“Yeah, Mike, that would be a good idea,” John nods, and now Atley’s wondering if she’s entered the Twilight Zone. “You know, kill two birds with one stone and all that,” he says with a chuckle. Greg looks a little bewildered at the turn in conversation ( _thank God_ ); he excuses himself after a moment, leaving the rest of them in his wake.

“Well, if that’s all,” Atley says, closing her notebook, effectively ending this conversation. 

“I don’t think so,” Ashton says with a smirk. “I want to talk more about what bands you want to go see, and let’s see if any of us want to go with you. Get your fancy calendar out.”

She’s going to kill all of them. Right here, in public, right now.

“You know what? I don’t have it with me,” she lies.

“It’s on your phone, and your phone is right there,” Calum says with a smirk, pointing.

**You’re fucking hot when you talk about music.**

Her eyes flash back to his before she swipes at the screen but it’s too late; Adam’s clearing his throat next to her. _God damn all of these fucking meddling assholes_ , she thinks to herself. The last thing she wants to be is a joke, and she’s close to feeling that way; she takes a deep breath, opening her calendar app.

“I think I’m gonna leave,” Luke says first, standing, biting his lip. “Feldy, remember, we have that thing? Adam? Right?” He nods and, despite their cluelessness, John and Adam push back from the table and stand.

“Sure, Luke. Whatever you say,” John says with a wink thrown to Atley. “Why don’t you guys let me know what you’ve worked out, okay?”

Now she’s left with Ashton, Michael and Calum, and she kind of wants to die.

**I bet you’re all wet now, thinking about being with me.**

The message pops up at the top of her screen and her eyes go blurry for a moment. She tries to focus, tries to see the words written on her calendar, but she just can’t.

“Everything okay, there, Atley?” Michael chuckles; she knows he can clearly read her text messages from the way he’s sitting with his elbows on the table, leaning over. She’s got a 6 Plus; the screens are fucking huge.

She nods, crossing her legs, trying to relieve the tension. “Fine. I’m fine,” she croaks, grabbing her water when her voice cracks.

This time Ashton laughs as he stands and takes the seat next to her. He pats her on the back, and she wiggles away. “You sure about that? You seem a little jumpy.”

**You’re thinking about last night, aren’t you? Me holding you up, fucking you against the window?**

They _have_ to know what he’s doing, she thinks, Calum’s sitting back in his chair, very obviously holding his phone, and when he drops his hands, hers vibrates. Ashton spins her phone around, and she nearly comes unhinged, trying to grab it back.

“This doesn’t look like your calendar,” he teases. “No wonder you’re a little flustered,” he whispers into her ear and now? She’s going to be a mass-murderer. Luke’s going to be a solo artist as soon as she remembers how to breathe. She finally retrieves her phone from Ashton's grabby hands.

"Is that porn? Are you looking at porn, Atley?" Michael laughs and Atley stands when she realizes that now he's read everything on her phone, too. _Fuck all of this, I'm leaving._ "Wait, Atley," Michael says a bit more seriously. "Don't go. We're sorry." He has the audacity to look properly chagrined, and Atley delivers her best bitch brow.

"How about you two get lost." At long last, Calum finally speaks, sitting back up and resting his elbows on the table. "I'll make arrangements with Atley alone. I don't need you two idiots around." Atley stays rooted in place, denying the fact that her legs might be trembling under his heated gaze. She might as well be naked with the way he's eye-fucking her.

"And with that, I'm out," Ashton says, pulling Atley into an awkward side-hug. "You know, we have the whole day free before we fly back in the morning," he says conspiratorially. "Me and Mike are gonna do some sightseeing if you want to come with us."

"I don't think she wants to come with us," Mikey says sotto voce, the intent not lost on anyone at the table. He laughs at his own joke and gets up, waving at Calum awkwardly before heading out of the restaurant, Ashton hot on his heels.

Atley's phone buzzes in her hand.

**Now you're thinking about my head between your legs, making you come.**

"You are an absolute menace," she hisses, picking up her tote and stuffing all of her things inside. "Can't even say it to my face," she mutters along with some other choice words and phrases as she shoves everything in her bag. The hand on her shoulder turns her around, breaking her from her diatribe; she hadn't noticed Cal getting up from his spot, walking around the table, closing in on her like a predator stalking his prey.

"I'll say it to your face," he says quietly, his hand dropping from her shoulder to her hip. "You look fucking amazing today, Atley." His eyes rove over her body. "I've been imagining seeing your red lips wrapped around my cock, and when you started talking about music and concerts, it made me so fucking hard." Atley gasps, her gaze immediately going down his long body, confirming his words. He presses against her for an additional confirmation. "I was pissed you just walked out last night, especially because I wasn't quite done." _Oh God_. He bends down, playing with the collar of her blouse at her neck. "It's been building for a long time, Atley, this thing." His voice is low and raspy in her ear, and she's absolutely trembling. "Come upstairs with me. The only thing I feel like seeing today is the look on your face when I make you come." He hands her tote to her and raises his eyebrows.

In a split second, she makes a decision, taking her tote from his hands and following Calum back to his room. In the elevator, his phone buzzes in his pocket and he takes it out to check it.

**_I'm a bit pent up and planning on going long...and hard....you in?_ **

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The walk through JFK at four am is painful for a multitude of reasons. For one, it's four am. She's exhausted, this trip to New York City not yielding as much down time (or sleep) as she probably should've gotten. 

For two, she's sore. Not like she worked out too much and pulled a muscle sore, or not like she's coming down with the flu sore. No, the reason that she's sore is about twenty feet in front of her, dressed all in black, toting his backpack, and if she had to guess, a massive smile on his face.

With every step toward their gate, her thighs scream from over-exertion but she soldiers on. _My God, is this the biggest airport on earth? How much further to our gate?_

JFK isn't particularly busy at four am, although, there are quite a few people milling about, waiting for international departures and the west coast flights. They've timed it just so they arrive to the gate when the boys can immediately board, so as to avoid any fans or confrontation. Atley's part of the entourage, falling in line behind the boys, handing the flight attendant her boarding pass just as John walks on ahead of her. 

She's paid no mind to much of anything over the last twenty-four hours, the only exception being Calum. When she boards the plane, he's already sitting in his first class seat, headphones on, eyes closed. _He's been on this plane maybe ninety seconds. What even?_

She bites her lip, remembering she wasn't the only one not getting any sleep. No, she and Cal _fucked_ most of the last day and night, up until about fifteen minutes before the van arrived for them at the hotel. The last round was in the shower, Cal holding her against the tiles as she begged for mercy and sweet release.

Which is why her hair is in a bun, half-dry and she's in yoga pants and an off the shoulder sweatshirt (with no bra because, honestly, she couldn't find it). She checks her boarding pass and then glances up, looking for her row. 

_Right next to Calum._

She shoves her bag above her head and steps over his legs, Cal making no attempt to move, legs askew. She's about to sit when she notices the sides of his mouth quirk up into a grin. _Asshole._ She plops into her seat, trying to get settled when her phone buzzes on her lap.

**Feel like joining the mile-high club?**


End file.
